


Body Art

by LittleDarkling



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Magical Tattoos, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDarkling/pseuds/LittleDarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki, Steve, tattoos.  Another 'Family' verse fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Art

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters belong to Marvel. This is a work of fan love. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: I have no excuse. None.

 

 

When Steve returns to their room, he finds that Loki has already settled into bed. The trickster is propped on his side, pouring over one of Steve’s old sketchbooks. There are many like it lining the shelves of the large bookcase, but this one is far older than the others. The pages are yellowed with age, the binding cracked and so badly worn that a rougher touch than Loki’s would likely crumble it altogether. 

It was salvaged during the war by one of the men in his unit and given to SHIELD by the man’s granddaughter a few years back. Coulson had returned it when Steve joined the Avengers. It had been tucked away in his footlocker until Loki uncovered it, while Steve was rummaging about in search of something else.

It is not uncommon for the trickster to delve into deep study of any random subject that captures his attention and Loki’s interests often have nothing at all to do with any scheme. Though he outwardly projects a certain disdain for Midgardian culture, he cannot seem to repress his inquisitive nature. Steve has found him pouring over everything from ancient texts he’s nicked from the museum (which Steve is eventually able to persuade him to return) to Tony’s disturbingly extensive collection of erotic magazines. Steve had started veering Loki away from the latter, since he noticed the trickster was developing a fascination with bondage (he didn’t need his husband getting ideas). Steve’s sketchbooks and journals are his focus of study these days. He reads them diligently and occasionally questions the captain on some entry or image.

Steve strips out of his clothes and slides into bed beside Loki, bringing his body flush against the trickster’s. He splays his hand protectively over his mate’s flat stomach. A few weeks along, he has not yet started to show any outward signs of his condition, though Thor had been able to sense it the moment he was in his brother’s presence. Steve looks over his shoulder at the image he is so intently studying, a sketch of a Maori warrior. Some of the art was based on stories and descriptions from other officers.

 He remembers sitting under makeshift shelters in the freezing rain, listening raptly to tales of incredible places and people most of the younger guys in the unit had never heard of, let alone seen. The majority of the stories were wildly exaggerated, but the point wasn’t to educate. It allowed them to dream, however briefly, of a future unscathed by war and violence, exotic places they might see once the fighting was done. 

At the time Steve drew this, he had been serving with a young man whose grandmother was of Maori descent. The image was based on the description the boy had given him. 

“What do you think of it?” Steve asks quietly, warm breath ruffling Loki’s hair. The trickster’s long, elegant fingers trace over the image.

“Why do you mark your bodies?” he asks.

“Tattooing—that’s what we call it—it goes back thousands of years. Sometimes it has cultural significance; it is part of a people’s history. This one, for instance, is called _Ta moko._ It is the art of the Maori of New Zealand and it is still done to this day.” Loki’s fingers drift to the next page, a sketch of a young Navy petty officer standing on the beach with a cigarette between his fingers. The trickster touches the outline of the sparrow holding a small red ribbon in its beak that is inked into his forearm. Beneath it, an anchor with a golden rope twining around it. 

“These?” he asks.

“Hmm, well. Some tattoos have significance to certain groups within our society. The ‘swallow’ and ‘anchor’ were fairly common among sailors.” Loki turns the page and Steve clears his throat uncomfortably at sight of a drawing he had entirely forgotten about until just now. A curvaceous brunette woman in a tight black dress, perched on the wing of a P-47 Thunderbolt. He had drawn the image from memory, but he may have taken some artistic liberty with the, uh…the chest area. 

“W-Well, that was a…pinup girl. It was something to look at, I suppose.” He has no chance of covering his embarrassment from Loki. The trickster turns his head, looking at Steve with piercing green eyes.

“You are blushing,” he murmurs.

“Yes, I am,” the captain admits. Loki’s lips pull into an impish smile. Steve sighs. “I know that look. What is it going to take for you to turn the page and forgot you ever saw that picture?” He feels more than hears Loki’s soft chuckle and Steve smiles. He feels oddly accomplished when he can draw genuine laughter from his husband.  Mercifully, the trickster closes the book and places it on the nightstand.

“Why do you not possess such art?” he asks as he rolls onto his back.

“I don’t know.” The captain scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Before the serum I found art on other people appealing, but I didn’t think I could stand it myself; I was never a big fan of needles. Now, I don’t think it would even take.” Loki looks down at his own forearm, pensively tracing the lean muscle.

“Are you thinking of getting a tattoo?” Steve asks jokingly, following the path of Loki’s fingers with his own.

“Would it please you?” the prince questions. Steve presses a kiss to the corner of the trickster’s mouth.

“Anything you put on your body would please because it is _your_ body.” Loki rolls his eyes, and turns his face against the pillow, though not quickly enough to hide the blush that stains his pale cheeks. Steve smiles; he curls close to his husband and closes his eyes.

 

*

A few days later, the team confronts a gang of thieves who are in the midst of staging a blitz attack in the city. Robbing museums, stores and banks. Loki had disappeared after breakfast, leaving Steve with a kiss and no explanation. Looking over the video footage in the quinjet, Steve knows immediately that this is his husband’s work. The level of organization put forth to produce such brilliant chaos is much Loki’s style. 

As if to confirm his suspicions, the trickster appears in full battle regalia, striding boldly through the horde of darkly garbed looters. A shining glance of gold in a sea of darkness. Despite Fury’s creative rant—involving some language that made even Coulson flush—he has to smile when Loki looks up at the SHIELD cameras and bows gracefully.

Steve and Tony engage Loki in a fight and Steve is amused when the trickster and the inventor spend much of it trading insults rather than blows. After the battle is over and Loki has vanished, Steve sees the remaining thieves secured, and briefs Fury before returning to the mansion. Despite their success, Fury is in a grim mood, even for him. This fight was over far too quickly and effortlessly. When it comes to Loki, a battle won so easily means the purpose was distraction, not victory, and the fallen prince is now in possession of some information or device that will mean trouble for SHIELD later on.

 

Steve does not expect Loki back at the mansion any time soon. The trickster is usually late returning after battles, especially if, as Fury hypothesized, he has something in his possession that he should not. Steve’s not even certain if Loki had been working with any other villains on this scheme. Such things didn’t worry him before, but now he finds the idea makes him uneasy.

 He knows very little of Loki’s allies, only that the trickster will keep their company and their confidences as long as they are useful to him. And then he will betray them, usually quite spectacularly. It seems his list of enemies grows on a weekly basis and that is what worries Steve. He has no doubt Loki can take care of himself, but if any of those villains were to become aware of the trickster’s condition, they would no doubt seek to use it against him.

So consumed in thought, he is taken by surprise when he opens the door of the bedroom and finds Loki waiting for him in their bed. The prince is propped comfortably against the headboard, naked but for the sheet wound around his right leg. 

“You are late, husband,” Loki murmurs, long, elegant fingers brushing over the rumpled linen. Steve’s capacity for speech has suddenly abandoned him and all he can do is gape. Loki tilts his head, mouth twitching into an amused smile. “I am sure Stark would much enjoy a show, but this is better kept a private affair, would you not agree?” Realizing that he is still holding the door wide open, Steve closes it quickly before turning back to his mate. The trickster’s smile grows as the captain stares at him. Steve’s blue eyes have gone dark, pupils dilated. The scent of his arousal permeates the air and for Loki, whose senses are keener than a human’s, it is entirely intoxicating. 

“Do you intend to join me or do you prefer to watch?” His fingers glide over his upper thigh, grazing his half-hard cock. Steve swallows audibly, stripping methodically out of his clothing as he moves toward the bed, unable to take his eyes from his husband’s body. Slender, silken bands of moonlight shiver across Loki’s skin, making it appear as white and smooth as bone. The trickster’s green eyes are flames in the dim light, watching him with unabashed hunger.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he kneels on the bed, hands sliding over Loki’s long legs. The trickster’s eyes fall closed and he exhales a breath as Steve pushes his thighs apart and moves between them.

“Loki…” Steve whispers, hand brushing the prince’s stomach. He can feel the flutter of protective magic that shields their unborn child, a strange current that seems to spark against his fingers. Steve bows his head, nipping gently at the skin above Loki’s navel. The trickster’s body rises in a sigh; his hand settles on Steve’s head, fingers carding through the captain’s blond hair. Steve smiles against his skin, one hand moving to curve around Loki’s hip as he looks up at his husband. The prince’s expression is strange, dazed, his eyes slightly unfocused. 

“You said that art on others is appealing to you,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the line of his husband’s jaw.  Steve blinks at the non-sequitur and he flashes back to the conversation they’d had a few nights prior.

“I remember,” he replies after a moment. Loki’s lips tug into a familiar half-smile, all mischief and dark promise. Whether in battle or in private, it never fails to make Steve’s pulse quicken.

“There is something I wish to show you,” Loki murmurs. He reaches down, fingers brushing across Steve’s hand, and then dragging over his own flesh, tracing an invisible, winding design from the curve of his hip to his heart. A faint, glowing line of blue appears briefly along the same path, before vanishing into flesh. Steve can feel the strength of Loki’s power, the dark energy igniting under his hands. 

A curl of black begins to seep from beneath Loki’s flesh, like a drop of ink spreading across a blank page. It unfurls slowly, lines of black, and then dark green stretching languidly across his skin. Steve touches the writhing lines as they twist, gaining in length. They loop and tangle, weaving together, beginning to form a pattern. Steve’s hands slide upward, fingers splaying over the design. He looks up at his husband; Loki’s lips are parted, breath coming soft and uneven. The trickster’s muscles shudder, a mixture of pleasure and pain.

“Is this hurting you?” Steve asks. Loki shakes his head dazedly.

“Q-quite the opposite…” he rasps. His body arches into the captain’s large hands, hips rising off the bed. The vision of Loki lost in the mingled haze of magic and lust is utterly mesmerizing. No other living being, not god nor man, has ever seen him like this. This power, this beauty, is for Steve alone. What the world sees is merely a fraction of what Loki truly is. And it is _nothing_ compared to what is revealed when they are alone, a brilliant blending of magic and power born of their shared bond.  

It never fails to rouse something reckless and possessive in Steve. He wants to leave his mark here, on the canvas of Loki’s flesh. The imprint of his fingers wreathing the prince’s hips, his pale thighs and slender wrists. Indentations of tooth and nail that do not fade for days, a map of every place that Steve has touched, kissed and bitten. Until the whole world can see his claim on every inch of the trickster’s flesh.

 From the first time he explored Loki’s body with fingers, lips and tongue, the first time he watched his husband come apart under him, cry out his name in a paroxysm of helpless pleasure, Loki has made him desire such wicked things. Steve is not blind to the fact that this exquisite being has the power to ruin him entirely. And for this, for Loki, he would happily fall.

The lines of ink have woven into the recognizable design of two great dragons, one black and the other, shining emerald green. Not yet finished, they drag themselves sluggishly across their master’s torso. Loki’s back bows, his sharp nails digging into the strong muscle of Steve’s bicep.

“Husband…” he whispers, almost pleading. His weeping, neglected cock, juts from his body, leaving glistening drops of pre-come on his thigh. Steve wraps his hand around the length, gathering the slickness on his fingers to ease the movement as he drags his palm over the shaft. Loki mewls, thrusting into Steve’s fist, his nails leaving stinging welts down the captain’s arms. Steve bows his head, catching his husband’s lips in a rough kiss. His tongue curls around Loki’s, feeding, gathering the taste of ice and magic and feeling it shiver through his own blood stream, a mixture of the ancient, immortal and unseen. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Loki. Mine. My Loki.” The trickster’s eyes drag open, lips curling into a sharp, dark smile.

“Yours?”  He presses his hips into Steve’s rough hand. “Yours, is what is claimed, husband.” The invitation is playful, mocking. Always subtly challenging, even here.  Steve is staggered by the flair of hungry, desperate _want_ that washes over him, the desire to dominate. 

“Do I need to…?” he asks against Loki’s lips, rubbing his thumb roughly over the head of the prince’s arousal to draw a soft, desperate little mewl from his throat.

“I have prepared myself for you,” Loki pants softly, licking at Steve’s mouth, leaving a tiny crystalline sheen of ice in his wake. The captain growls, hand slipping back to rub at Loki’s cleft before shoving his fingers into the slick passage. His husband’s hips stutter upwards, his mouth meeting Steve’s in a clash. He gasps, arching up in a helpless spasm as Steve twists his hand viciously, Loki’s choked cry vibrating against his lips. 

Steve watches the stretch of Loki’s body around his fingers. The trickster mewls, grinding down on Steve’s hand, shameless in his desire. Steve’s cock throbs, desperate for friction. The twin dragons, now fully formed, are a stunning sight to behold. They possess tufts of gold on the sides of their heads and shadowy silver combs that run the length of their serpentine backs; they writhe across the surface of Loki’s pale skin, tangling around each other, their claws leaving faint indentations in the flesh as they move.

 They twine gracefully around the prince’s torso, energy seeming to draw from Loki’s heightened arousal. Steve kisses the long, scaly bodies, drags his tongue along the outer edge of the ink. He can taste the shivery shock of magic, the chill just beneath the surface of his husband’s skin. Loki’s fingernails drag over his shoulder and he grinds down, writhing on Steve’s fingers. 

“Husband…” he gasps raggedly.  Steve withdraws his fingers, leaving the trickster’s body open and empty. Loki makes a soft sound of frustration and the dragons flick their tails in discontent. Steve leans over him, tracing Loki’s lips with his tongue until they are slick and shining.  

Loki’s fingers curl into his hair, tilting his head to catch the captain’s mouth in a kiss. Desperate, needy. It goes on and on until Steve’s lungs burn and he finally has to pull back. When he exhales, he can see his own breath, a misty puff of chilled air. He laughs, resting his forehead against Loki’s as he catches his breath.

The trickster growls lowly, eyes flashing and Steve can feel a whip of cold, chill air at his back, impatiently urging. He shifts closer, until the head of his cock presses against his husband’s slick entrance. Loki’s body shines faint blue in the silver moonlight and the dragons gleam like fresh ink.

Steve presses in slowly, closing his eyes as his husband’s body yields to him. The shuddery groan that issues from Loki’s lips is felt more than heard, pleasured shudders wracking the strong, lean form under his hands. He runs his hands over his husband’s stomach, enjoying the feel of the muscles jumping beneath his fingers. Loki’s long legs tangle around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper inside, and Steve groans loudly against his throat; Loki’s body is a tight, hot, clinging sheath.

“Husband,” he breathes. Loki murmurs something in Asgardian, an obscenity or a spell, he’s not sure. Steve’s teeth scrap his chin, dragging his tongue along the smooth curve of his jaw. The trickster’s eyes are closed, lips still moving around the ancient speech. 

 Steve rolls his hips, fucking Loki in smooth, hard thrusts. His soft grunting pants are lost amidst the prince’s low, throaty moans. The trickster’s face is flushed, his lips parted to release each glorious sound. The dragons glow, their blood-drop eyes burning like hellfire.

“Look at me,” Steve murmurs. Loki’s eyes drag open, bright and ageless flame. A tear escapes his eye, sliding down the side of his face. The black dragon slithers up suddenly, curling itself around Loki’s throat, smoldering red gaze fixed on Steve.

He can’t resist pressing his palm to the trickster’s neck, fingers sliding over the living image. A bright, sharp sting suddenly penetrates the haze of pleasure as the dragon’s form begins to seep into his skin. He is mesmerized, watching the ink spread across his hand and arm, wisps and whorls of black that immediately retake its former shape. The dragon moves slowly, twining upwards over his arm and shoulder. Steve grits his teeth, acutely aware of every slithering twist, clawing step, as it ascends.

“Loki…” he rasps, pushing himself up to better see the dragon’s path. He can feel it, the motion of the creature shifting beneath his skin, like the sharpest and most subtle of blades. Loki’s hand slides over Steve’s chest and the dragon follows its master’s touch. 

Fingers sweeping over tanned flesh, an artist’s brush on canvas. His bruised mouth pulls into a smile that is all wickedness and sin. Loki’s hand slips into Steve’s hair, long fingers threading through the blond locks as he looks up at his husband. The captain’s breath comes in sharp gasps, body overloaded by the sensation. The dragon under his skin, the tightness and pulse of Loki’s body, the scent of cold, the tremble of power that curls around them. 

Loki’s eyes are locked with his and Steve feels frozen and blazing hot at the same time, skin like fire and breath like ice. He bows his head, attacking the trickster’s mouth again. Feasting more than kissing, rough and hungry. Loki’s hand slides over his back, sharp nails digging into skin. Steve groans against his mouth, feeling the dragon curling, twisting around his torso. He drives into Loki hard, pushing the trickster’s body up the mattress with each thrust. The trickster’s nails rake down his back, leaving bloody tracks behind. 

“Ah!” Steve gasps, arching.

“Too much, husband?” Loki whispers hoarsely against his lips. Steve growls, slowing his frenzied pace. Loki’s eyes fill his vision, merciless and ruthless and mocking and beautiful. He rolls his hips in a slow grind, smiling at the shudder that passes through Loki’s body, the helpless little whimper he can’t restrain. 

“Too much?” he asks. The trickster tilts his head, eyes narrowing and Steve should well have known that Loki would not let this teasing go unanswered.

His thighs tighten around Steve’s waist. Before he can react, Loki uses a combination of leverage and magic to flip their positions, laying his husband flat on his back. The sudden shift drives him deeper into Loki and they both cry out. The trickster shivers, body clenching around the thick length of his husband’s arousal. His head is bowed, black hair falling over his face, a shadow. Steve eyes fix for moment on his reddened mouth, watching more than hearing each ragged, panting breath. He starts to push himself up, wanting to ravage that pretty mouth again, but Loki has other ideas.  An invisible tug that lands the captain flat. He places his hands on the captain’s broad chest, bracing himself. His lips curl into a dark, predatory smirk as he looks down at his husband and Steve swallows sharply. 

“Please,” he murmurs.  Loki moves, raising and lowering his body, quick and rough, drawing whimpers from his own throat. He allows Steve’s arousal to slip nearly completely from his body before thrusting himself upon it again.

Steve shouts, hands grasping roughly at Loki’s lean, taut thighs as he arches under him. It’s too much. It’s too much. There is no grace or elegance in the trickster’s movements; it is simple, pure and carnal. Steve lies beneath him, panting, as Loki rides him. He is aware of the black dragon exploring his flesh, the brilliant, delicate heated throbbing as it moves. And Loki…writhing above him, shameless and wanton, taking his pleasure as he impales himself again and again. 

“Loki,” he groans, reaching up to touch his husband’s face. The emerald dragon has shifted down to tangle itself loosely around Loki’s hips, the scaly head with its golden plumes settling just below his navel, crimson eyes fixed on Steve. Loki’s dark hair is a disheveled mess, sticking to his face and throat. His mouth slack, faint blue shade to his skin and the green of his eyes nearly lost behind the spread of dark red. Steve presses his thumb between Loki’s lips, pushing it into his mouth. The trickster makes a soft, rumbling sound and sucks eagerly on the digit. Steve groans at the sight of those bruised, pale blue lips wrapping around his thumb. 

His restraint is left utterly in ruins. He grips Loki’s narrow hips, fingers pushing into the dip and begins to thrust, slamming his hips up. The trickster throws his head back, moaning deep in his throat, body arching. The emerald dragon rises, ascending Loki’s torso, jaws open in a silent roar.

Its twin crawls over Steve’s chest, tiny claws digging into his pectoral. This feeling, it is something he cannot describe, this dizzying, endless flow of pleasure and pain and magic. 

“Loki, what are you doing to me?” he gasps, thrusting erratically into the slick heat of his husband’s body. Loki cannot answer. His words now are too soft to hear. A litany spoken in a tongue not meant for human ears. Steve knows Loki is close. Knows by the way the trickster’s thighs tighten, gripping his body, eyes unfocused and his moans turned to ragged, gasping breaths.  

He reaches up, fisting a hand in his husband’s hair, dragging him down into a brutal, frosty kiss. His fingers need only graze the length of Loki’s cock, thumb sliding over the velvet-smooth head and Loki comes with a muffled cry, spilling across Steve’s stomach. He takes the moment to flip their positions, knocking the pillows off the bed as he brings Loki down. The trickster’s inner muscles are still tight with orgasm and Steve fucks him hard through it. Pliant and weak-limbed, Loki clings weakly to him as the captain takes his pleasure, each powerful thrust pulling a soft, stuttered gasp from his throat. 

The dragon seems to push deeper into his flesh, carving its path through muscle and bone and he can feel the spark of magic in his own blood, heightening his pleasure and amplifying…everything. Pleasure given and taken, shared. The tight, pulsing heat of Loki’s body, the arctic chill scent of his flesh, the musk of arousal. The beating heart of the new formed life inside him. Every place where his and Loki’s skin touch sparking new surges of intense sensation, engulfing him entirely. A rush of glorious power and strength, akin to the gods themselves.

The world is torn out from under him as he comes. There is only this, only Loki’s body entwined with his, the magic and immense power which surrounds and shelters them. He buries his face in his husband’s neck, consumed by a blinding pleasure which seems to go on and on.

He comes back to himself slowly, dimly aware of soft, cold breath against his cheek as Loki speaks. The words too soft to follow, but the speech is neither Asgardian nor English. His native tongue. The trickster’s long limbs are still tangled around him.

“Husband…” Steve whispers raggedly.

He is careful not to allow his weight to fall on the trickster. As much as he wants to collapse, exhausted, he gently untangles himself from Loki’s arms before falling into the space beside him. Steve exhales a breath against Loki’s chest, splaying a hand over the trickster’s belly.

“You are incredible,” he murmurs. The prince smiles sleepily. Steve glances down at his chest and realizes the dragon is gone, leaving only a dull phantom ache and the faint pink welts left by Loki’s fingernails. The ink on his husband’s body is fading, leaving Loki’s skin as smooth and unmarked as before.

Loki smiles slightly, observing the boyish fascination with which Steve continues to study his skin, as though seeking some remaining evidence of the dragons.

“It is ancient magic, once used in ceremony to mark the bond between lovers when they have given another life to the world.” he murmurs. “Our blood is the ink.” He brushes his fingers across Steve’s chin. “I wanted to please you.” Those words leave Steve speechless.  Loki is no less than he has always been, a ruthless, sharp-tongued malevolent presence. He shows no mercy to enemy…or allies, once their purpose is served, and offers only minimal civility toward the other Avengers when they not engaged in battle (even that, he does begrudgingly). 

Yet, there is still this, these moments when the thorny armor is shed, however briefly, and Steve is permitted a glance of the gentle, peaceable scholar and sorcerer that Thor has oft described in stories of their boyhood in Asgard. Loki gives these moments, this rare and fragile trust, only to Steve and that, he thinks, is the most powerful sign of the trickster’s affection.

He presses his lips to his husband’s forehead, exhaling a wet, shuddery breath. 

“I love you,” he breathes.  Loki looks up, tired green eyes meeting his. Defense and mischief briefly placed aside, Loki’s entire countenance changes. Soft and vulnerable and so damn beautiful that it breaks Steve’s heart. He rubs his hand over his beloved mate’s skin, breaking the fragile sheen of frost that has formed with the cooling sweat. 

He nudges his lips against his Loki’s, sharing a series of slow, slick kisses. He can taste it still, the undercurrent of power and magic. Their legs are tangled, skin damp with cooling sweat. Steve draws back slowly, smoothing a thumb over the curve trickster’s cheekbone.

“You need to rest,” he says quietly. The prince’s eyes narrow, the barest hint of impatience sparking behind his eyes, but he does not object when Steve draws him close and arranges the sheets around his body.  Despite his insistence that his condition has no effect on his energy reserves, Loki’s eyes fall closed almost immediately and his breathing goes so still, it is scarcely detectable. Steve’s fingers linger on the curve of his cheek, still baring a pale blue flush and faint Jötunn marking. His lips brush the shell of the trickster’s ear.

“You are amazing,” he whispers, hand sliding down the sinuous line of Loki’s body to splay over the trickster’s stomach. “And you are mine.” 

 

End


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